Ape Clown mashes acrobats and slurps them up. The crowd applauds in horror. Bums on seats, my friend. Bums on seats.

—–

The cage is empty. Ape Clown must be out on the tiles. In doorways: drowned women, dredged from neon dreams.

—–

Even Ape Clown has moments of nakedness. The mask comes off, then the greasepaint, then the skin. The hours wilt.

—–

Ape Clown dreams of immortality. But we barely remember what he looks like. A devil? A man? Not that it matters.